


Burn

by erolyn2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, fireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erolyn2/pseuds/erolyn2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jorah finds out how just dangerous it can be to play with fire (and Targaryens).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt "fireplay" at asoiafkinkmeme.

It starts innocently enough.

Daenerys has not acclimated well to the harsh winters of Westeros, and this night after they spend themselves in her bed she insists they lay by the fire. She seems content there, the flames warming her ivory skin, but they are much closer than Jorah would like, and the heat stings his eyes when he looks too long at her bare form beside him.

“You do not feel the fire at _all_?”

“I can _feel_ it,” she says. "It feels warm. But it does not burn me.”

“Truly?”

She reaches a hand out and touches the flames as though they are air. Instinctively Jorah pulls her arm back to him, looking for the burns on her palms, but they remain smooth as always. He hisses when his hand meets hers; her flesh is _scorching hot_ , yet she seems not to notice it at all.

He saw her emerge unscathed from Drogo’s pyre years ago, of course, but he had always thought it must be some blood magic, or the power in the dragons themselves, that protected her. “You certainly are the blood of the dragon,” he murmurs.

Dany grins widely, leaning up on her elbows to stroke his chest. “And you have the North in your bones.” Her lips brush lightly over his for a brief second and lift away.“Yet you brave the heat for me.”

He pulls her head back down to kiss her properly, opening her mouth with his tongue. How else to explain to her that she means much more to him than the North ever could, that she melts the ice in his veins? His fingers tighten in her hair, deepening the kiss further, and he groans in protest when she ends it, her lips twisted into an odd sort of smirk.

“Hold still a moment,” she commands.

Her hand caresses the flames again, and this time she places it on him intentionally, studying his reaction. Jorah clenches his jaw to keep from crying out at the pain; Dany’s eyes, however, are not on his face, and he cannot disguise the twitch in his manhood when her burning fingers touch his skin.

“My bear,” she whispers, her voice thick in his ear, “you enjoyed that.”

He would sooner confess to treason than admit it, but protesting often does little good once Daenerys has an idea in her pretty head.

 Instead he says nothing, letting her dip her fingers into the hearth once more and trail them from his chest down his stomach, moaning as a chill races up his spine. Her violet eyes gleam with power, with lust, an expression so arousing that he knows he can never say no to anything that would make her look at him that way.

She repeats her experiments, reaching around to his sides, his neck, and then lower, until he is gasping in pain and pleasure, her name escaping his lips again and again. If he is perfectly honest, it is more than Dany’s mood that moves him; in the pauses between the brush of her fingers, the chill air cools the burns they leave, and the contrast leaves his nerves standing on end, makes him feel her every movement  with a dizzying intensity.He can hear the pleading quality his voice takes on when it all becomes too much, and his Queen takes mercy on him, closes her fingers around his cock and – _gods,_ it’s so _warm_ – strokes him until he spills into her hands.

For a long while he lies on the ground breathing, trying to decide what exactly has just occurred.

 _The blood of the dragon._ Why had he ever thought he could tangle with Targaryens?

When Daenerys returns to him she says nothing, just curls against his side as she always does in the night, her head tucked into his shoulder.

Jorah wakes up later – it must be hours later, for the fire burns so low that he must rise to stoke the flames – and finds his lover shivering in her sleep. He carries her as carefully as he can back to her bed and pulls the furs around her before he joins her there and returns to dreams of fire and blood.

-*-

The next night he catches her eyeing the candles on the walls, and before he quite knows what is happening his wrists are tied to the bedposts, his Queen looming dangerously above him.

His mild protest earns him only a sly grin as she sits back to straddle his hips; she’s left his breeches on, but removed his tunic, and he regrets that he cannot feel the heat between her thighs when her bare arse settles in his lap.

The sudden heat singeing his chest hairs makes Jorah yelp in surprise. How she managed to get a lit candle into her hand without attracting his attention, he’ll never know; perhaps he ought to be more alert in situations like this, rather than letting his mind wander to various parts of Daenerys. It is wax, only wax, he notes, not the flame itself, but somehow it is almost worse. Fire would burn out, not melt into his flesh, not _drip_ down his ribs…he tries hard not to squirm – that’s what she _wants_ – but cannot help but grit his teeth as the pain travels.

“Are you well, my knight?” Dany leans over him, resting her forearms upon his stomach. Her finger picks at the now cooling wax, and he winces again when she nearly pulls a hair free along with the hard substance that clings to it. For that, at least, she seems genuinely sorry; her lips brush his cheek, her voice soft in his ear. “I will stop, if you wish.”

He growls, not sure how to answer, not sure if he truly wants to know how far she will take this game - but _gods_ he’s harder than he’s ever been, and Daenerys has that look she gets after she wins a battle, the look that means she knows what an unstoppable force she is. He remembers the frightened face of the girl who wed Drogo in Pentos, the screams that travelled from the _Khal’s_ tent for weeks before they finally stopped.

If his Queen wishes to burn him, what can he say?

Jorah shakes his head just slightly, and his obedience is rewarded with a roll of her hips against his cock. Again he wishes he could _feel it;_ he nearly begs her to free him from his laces, at least, if she won’t free his hands, but bites his tongue instead. At least he might salvage some shred of dignity.

Soon he is glad of his silence, for she leans the candle down a bit lower each time, as she had with her finger the previous evening, and before long the wax has nearly travelled beneath his breeches. He isn’t sure he wants to know what will happen if it wanders any further…

“ _Too far,”_ he hisses.

Dany apologizes, and for a second he thinks – with both relief and terror – that she intends to stop.

The intense pain proves otherwise. Jorah roars before he knows what has happened; it takes several gasping breaths to process the image of her hand leaning the candle’s flame directly to his skin.

His Queen observes him with more exhilaration than pity in her eyes, though her tone is gentle enough.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Jorah remembers Mirri Maaz Duur, how the _maegi_ died screaming just as Daenerys promised, and for a moment, as she waits for his answer, her expression terrifies him.

He stares back at her until they both understand, and when her devious smile returns he grits his teeth and prepares for the next burn. It takes so long to arrive that he suspects she is toying with him deliberately, letting him wallow in the anticipation of pain to come. The rest follow in quicker succession, and again she moves downward, careful not to touch the same spot twice. He thinks it will hurt less each time, but it doesn’t; it is the same agony, followed by a pleasure that stuns him, and then more agony, again and again and again. By the time she is past his navel he can barely think at all, yet somehow he manages to register that the fire is dangerously close to the fabric of his breeches; somehow he manages to string together enough sounds to form her name and push it from his throat.

“Daenerys…”

“ _Your Grace_ ,” she corrects, leaning the flame closer again.

“Your Grace… _please_ …” He hardly cares anymore that he has broken his vow not to beg, all he knows is that he needs her _now,_ needs a release that only his liege can grant him…

She extinguishes the flame between her fingers and tosses the candle aside, stripping him of his breeches at last and easing him far too slowly inside her. They gasp in unison as she begins to move – _gods_ , she’s so _wet_ , so wet that he knows she’s already nearly as close as he is – and Jorah strains again at his bonds, wanting desperately to touch her with his hands. Truly, he knows he could do it; the ties are only fabric, after all, he’s certainly strong enough to break them, and it is _killing_ him to watch her perfect breasts bouncing and not reach for them. But it isn’t worth risking her displeasure, not when he knows perfectly well what the punishment is for touching the Queen against her wishes.

He closes his eyes, trying to focus, but nearly the instant he does so Dany’s hand drags his chin up, forcing him to look up at her, to look at her and not touch. _Punishment indeed._  

Never once does her gaze break as she rides him, not even when she begins to tremble around him, not even when her high moans pierce the air and he feels her muscles clench, bringing him finally, finally past the edge and into the darkness with her, relief washing over him like a balm to his wounds.

She lies so still afterward, moving only with the rise and fall of his chest as she rests atop it. Jorah fears she has fallen asleep again until she sighs at last, nuzzling back into her usual position.

He wonders again if she is toying with him, or if she has truly forgotten.

“Do you intend to untie me, your grace?”

Her head lifts at that, and still he cannot tell.

“Perhaps.”

 She traces his skin lazily, examines her work, and notices to her great amusement that she has managed to burn off several of the dark hairs that blanket his torso.

 “I had thought I might shave you, someday,” she says,“but this is effective as well.”

“ _Dany,”_ he warns, and she giggles, a sound he only hears when she feels safe enough to set the Dragon Queen aside and reveal the girl beneath.

“Only jesting, my bear.”

Dany makes quick work of the knots that leash him to her bed, though she fights to hide the smug grin on her face as she does so. When he is finally freed she leans in to kiss him and Jorah wraps his arms around her, marveling at how soft and warm and supple she is now when only minutes ago she had been relishing his pain. If he were made to choose a single moment to explain why he loves her, he thinks, this would be it. This is the woman he fought a war for – a conqueror _and_ a mother, fierce but gentle, caring and strong.

He trails his fingers through her hair for as long as he can until he succumbs to exhaustion, deciding as his vision goes dark that to stay by her side he would happily endure any flame. 


End file.
